


For Suffering Is As Much A Part

by ghostwise



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Fluff and Angst, M/M, Nonbinary Character, Past Child Abuse, feeling sad about elves feeling sad about tamlen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-22
Updated: 2018-12-07
Packaged: 2019-08-05 19:10:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 16,053
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16373381
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghostwise/pseuds/ghostwise
Summary: He didn't grow up on fairytales, or practiced in the ways of grief and love. A Zevran-centric fic taking place during 'Nature of the Beast'.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I love slant-rhymes! Can you tell?

Traveling with the Wardens, he finds himself thinking of the brothel again.

Zevran is not sure what to make of it. In the midst of a Blight and with all the horrors they have met, that he should be reminded of where he lived out his meager childhood seems almost absurd. He hasn’t thought about the place in years, and it’s strange, because most of the memories themselves are quite unremarkable.

He thinks of the brothel not as a brothel, but as a collection of experiences.

He thinks of being hungry and bored all the time.

He thinks of the little rooms where he and the other children stayed. Plain walls, simple cots, a broken window. They were left alone, mostly; removed from the establishment itself, where business took place.

At times, some of the prostitutes came by to visit their children. These children were the fortunate ones; they had someone looking out for them. Someone who scraped coin together to buy them a pair of shoes, or a small sweet cake on their birthday.

He thinks of being beaten, but to be fair, he is fairly certain he deserved it each time. Though when he tries to remember what mischief he got up to that earned him such punishments, he comes up blank.

That was a lifetime ago. But it was home, for a time.

Mahariel tells him he can trust him.

Zevran thinks of the brothel, and he doesn’t know why.

 

Morning comes in a misty blanket, leaving dewdrops on the leaves and on all the tents and carriages. Following a night of troubled and fragmented sleep, Zevran wakes up alone, already shivering.

In the past, it had been practical that he spend the night in the Warden’s tent.

As long as Zevran had known him, Mahariel had always been a restless sleeper. Night after night, he wound up by the fire, guarding the camp and avoiding whatever nightmare had driven him out of bed. He could go for days like this, sleeping only an hour here and there.

Zevran was unabashed in his attraction to the man, but more privately, he cared about his wellbeing too. So, considering the casual physical intimacy the two had fallen into, a tacit decision was made: rather than slipping away in the night, leaving him to face the nightmares alone, Zevran began staying.

And it helped. Nobody could deny that.

But Mahariel doesn’t have nightmares anymore. Not since Tamlen.

They do not discuss what this could mean.

Fortunately, Zevran is not given the opportunity to dwell on it for too long. The sounds of their camp rousing awake distract him. Breakfast and Da’len barking and Morrigan already beginning an argument with Leliana. Soon, Zevran is up himself.

It does not take long for Hamal to make his way over, yawning and pulling Zevran into a loose embrace.

“Still asleep, my Warden?” Zevran asks, smiling.

“Coffee,” Hamal responds simply. “Why did you have to introduce me to the damned stuff? You’ve ruined me.”

Zevran feels something stir in him, some tender foolish thing, and he smiles. In the cold morning light, it is easy to carry on as they always have.

“Your dependency on caffeine is exactly what I planned for you,” he says. “Soon, we will run out of coffee, and the resulting headache will lead to your downfall.”

“No, Zev,” Hamal says weakly. “Please.”

“Too late.” Zevran peers into the empty coffee bag. “It has already happened.”

Hamal lets out an offended groan. He looks so personally affronted, that Zevran cannot hold back a laugh, and promises to buy more as soon as they are able to.

 

They travel south.

The overcast weather lingers, a chill in the air driving everyone to bundle up and layer on cloaks and scarves.

Hamal seems to relish the cold, underdressed for the weather. He likes autumn, he says, and its frigid mists that linger. The grey sky and no sun to glare in his eyes. He scouts ahead, peering into the distance, and by midmorning he spots something exciting.

Zevran barely registers his words before he has taken off running.

“What did he say?” Alistair asks.

“Halla,” Zevran tells him, and hurries after the Warden.

They have been skirting the outskirts of the Brecilian forest for days now. To finally find some sign of the wandering Dalish clans is welcome news, and it spreads like chain lightning, slowing their caravan to a halt.

Alistair is quick to follow, for if they do meet the Dalish today it is only proper that both Grey Wardens be present to begin treaty negotiations. Leliana comes too, with a delighted, “I’ve  _always_  wanted to see a halla!”

She is not disappointed. There are several of the creatures grazing in the meadow, beautiful, serene, and much bigger than they had seemed from a distance. A few of the halla bound away as they arrive, but the nearest one stays, letting Hamal stroke its white fur.

He is speaking to it softly, Elvhen baby talk, marveling at its horns, scratching its ears, when a voice calls out from the misty woods. They’ve been noticed.

The Dalish scout is armed, everything from his stance to his tone making it clear that he wouldn’t hesitate to meet hostility with equal force—but the Warden meets him peacefully.

_“Aneth ara, lethallin.”_

They launch into rapid Elvehn, talking and gesturing and talking some more. It goes on for enough time that Alistair has to clear his throat to remind Hamal that he and the others are still present.

“Oh!” Hamal says, shifting languages abruptly. “Forgive me. This is Alistair, a fellow Grey Warden. This is Zevran, and Leliana. Friends.”

“Curious companions,” the scout simply laughs.

Zevran smiles wordlessly. Then, understanding that he is not needed here, he sets a hand on Leliana’s shoulder. “You two go on ahead,” he says. “We will wait with the others while you make arrangements.”

Nobody outright disagrees, but Leliana frowns as they walk back together.

“Why did we not go with them, Zevran?” she asks. “I would have liked to accompany Hamal to meet the Dalish; though it is not his clan, it is a bit like going home for him, no?”

“I have a feeling it will be a delicate meeting,” Zevran says. “We are not here for recreation, after all. It is best they sort out the important things first, before us superfluous folks come along.”

Leliana pouts at that. “I am  _not_  superfluous. Neither are you.”

“Perhaps… But I have been among the Dalish before. I know how these things go.”

“Really?” Leliana tilts her head, curious. “You have been among the Dalish? When?”

Zevran shakes his head. “Come,” he says simply, avoiding the question so bluntly, that she does not ask it again. “Let us go inform the others.”

 

With such a large caravan, the decision is ultimately made that the Wardens and their allies are to stay apart from the Dalish camp, indefinitely. Furthermore, until proven trustworthy, a surveillance post is set up a few hundred yards away to keep close watch on their activities. There are envoys from Redcliffe, Orzammar, and the Circle here after all; with so many humans and outsiders, many in the clan are uneasy.

It is not altogether without reason. The clan’s Keeper, Zathrian, explains to the Wardens that they are facing difficulties of their own. Beasts prowl the forest. They strike at the heart of the clan, night after night, pinning it down like prey.

Many in the Wardens’ camp find it to be just an improbable excuse to avoid honoring the old treaties. Though werewolves are not unheard of, they are creatures of lore; found in stories for children or in metaphorical ballads. Not in real life.

Still, despite keeping them at arm’s length, the clan is curious about their unexpected guests. They quickly agree to trade news and supplies, and a copy of the Warden treaties is transcribed immediately, as this is the first time anyone in the clan has seen the original documents. The clan’s hahren pores over the writing for hours, searching for clues as to how their ancestors devised the agreement, and what this might tell about their way of life at the time of the documents’ creation.

Hamal is not around for any of this.

Zevran is not going to be the one to bring it up, but he does linger near Alistair until someone else with a nosy disposition comes along.

“He ran into a friend of his,” Alistair says, when Leliana asks. “They must be catching up.”

“Oh! How nice!” 

“It really is! I mean, not the whole werewolf thing; that isn’t nice at all. But it always helps to see a familiar face. And I imagine it smoothed things out with their Keeper, having someone from the clan vouch for us. Now all we have to do is help them break the curse.”

“Is that all? Truly? You are ever an optimist, my friend...” Leliana sighs.

Zevran scans around at the bustle of camp being set up. They’re in for a long haul; it might be weeks before the situation here is resolved, and he is already feeling restless. All this nature, dirt, and trees.

He thinks about the last time he was among a Dalish clan, out in the open, ready for a life among his people. He thinks about the reasons he left, crawling back to the Crows with a raw sense of disappointment.

_Braska_ , he thinks to himself, already tired of it.

 

It is evening now, and Hamal still has not returned.

Zevran is definitely not worried, but Alistair is beginning to feel uneasy. This much he admits when Zevran presses him for answers.

“I  _guess_  it’s been a while now… I’m not sure. He  _is_  the sort to get in trouble when left to his devices,” he hums, chewing a mouthful of stew thoughtfully. “Hmm. Shall I come with you to look for him?”

Zevran turns him down, assuring him that there is no need for a search party just yet. He is probably still at the Dalish camp, that’s all.

Zevran makes the short up-hill trek to ask the scouts at the surveillance post, and they have not seen the Warden either. But they do grant him permission to go into the camp, with a promise to direct Hamal his way if they see him. Following that, Zevran heads to the Dalish camp alone.

It’s late, and the sun has already set by the time he arrives. He takes a moment to survey the scene; the aravels and tents, draped with heavy furs and waterproof skins. It is different from how the Antivan Dalish live—more suited to the cold and muddy Fereldan terrain. The area is lit by sparse lamps and fires, and Zevran can catch snippets of soft Dalish lullabies and camp songs in Elvhen as he goes.

As a child, he had fallen asleep to such lullabies once or twice. The memories are drifting back now, and Zevran lets them come, curious about those long-forgotten days.

There had been two elven prostitutes who visited the children some nights, when business was slow: Adelmar and Nydia.

He remembers them with the sort of fondness reserved for childhood nostalgia: faceless in his thoughts—it had been _so long ago_ after all—but important nonetheless. They played with the children, sang songs, and told stories. And always, always, there was a lullaby at the end, with Adelmar singing a little huddle of orphans to sleep. A lullaby about wandering to distant lands, dreaming about the return home.

The words, like the faces, are gone now—but it is shocking how the melodies are the same, though the languages are not. Adelmar had never shared stories about her life, only fairytales. Had she been Dalish, too, like his mother? He had never thought to wonder back then, but the question puzzles him now.

She had seemed much older than him at the time, but she must have been about 16 or 17; not a mother figure, then, but an older sister.

How strange, to think of the brothel and find a fond memory for once.

But he is jolted from his reminiscing, catching sound of the Warden’s voice.

Zevran has wandered past the camp proper, and there, just at the edge of the dark forest, two figures sitting together in a close embrace.

So this is where Hamal has been. Knowing that he has not been noticed, Zevran dips into hiding as naturally as breathing. He is… curious. He cannot say why, but he finds himself treading closer, taking care not to be seen or heard.

As he does, he realizes Hamal is comforting the stranger as they weep.

_“I can’t believe he is gone,”_  a quiet voice says.  “So young… too young.”

_“Ir abelas,”_ Hamal mumbles into their shoulder, and the rest of his words are lost, too quiet and mournful to hear.

“You were his best friend… Were you with him? Did you see it?”

“I… yes.”

“I’m so sorry. Did… did he suffer? How did it happen?”

Hamal draws back, struck silent, and Zevran freezes.

Tamlen.

They are talking about Tamlen.

This is very much not his business. This is too private, too personal, a needless intrusion. But Hamal looks so lost. His shoulders drop and he lowers his head, pained.

“… I did it,” he says finally, clipped and quiet. Not like breaking; more like shards.

“What?”

“I killed him.”

“No,” the stranger says. “What are you saying?”

Then, the dam breaks. “ _I killed Tamlen_ ,” Hamal says, voice raking painfully through the words. “I  _had_  to. I tried to make it as painless as I could but—he was sick, he had the Taint, nobody else could have...”

Part of Zevran wants to rush in,  _please, don’t do this to yourself,_  but he is still frozen as Hamal continues.

“He had been infected for  _months_. He was too far gone, he could barely speak, but he begged me—pleaded! He was in  _so much pain_.” Hamal stops again, his hands clenched on his knees, shaking. Finally he speaks the wound that has been festering for so long. “And I refused! I couldn’t bring myself to help him, until it was too late! Why did he have to go through that, and I didn’t? It isn’t fair! Mathuin, _what have I done?_ ”

“What you needed to!” Mathuin responds fiercely, and they grip Hamal’s shoulders, keeping him upright as he falls apart. “If he had the Blight sickness, you did what had to be done. He knew you cared about him. Hamal, please…”

“Alistair said that through the Taint, every Warden is connected to the darkspawn—it’s how we sense them, and how they sense us—and each night, I kept having nightmares, dreams of him shouting my name, searching… he was looking for me, terrified and hurting,  _every night_  he was calling out for me—”

“Just dreams, lethallin! You couldn’t have known!”

Hamal shakes their hands off, furious.

_“_ _The night I killed him, those dreams stopped!_ _”_

The Warden forces the words out as if they burn, starts sobbing. Mathuin pulls him close.

Zevran leaves then, just as silently as he came. His heart is still hammering in his chest by the time he gets back to camp.

“Did you find him?” Alistair asks as Zevran strides by.

“Yes.”

Zevran goes to his empty tent, where later he dreams vividly about a cedar tree. Adelmar stands under its shade, singing lullabies through the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 3/24/19: Edits made for clarity and flow. Thank you so much for reading!


	2. Chapter 2

The Warden spends the night in the Dalish camp. This much is obvious when Zevran wakes up and heads to his tent, only to find that it hasn’t been set up yet.

Alistair is _very_ miffed about it.

“I didn’t force _you_ all to camp elsewhere when we were in Redcliffe,” he huffs, not even trying to conceal how much he misses his friend.

“You are a shem,” Zevran quips. “You are probably not welcome with his folk.”

“Well that’s hardly fair. What about you?”

“A flat ear? Even worse. At least _you_ have an excuse for being unpalatable.”

“Hamal would _not_ tolerate someone calling you flat ear,” Leliana grunts around her breakfast.

“Maybe so. But it won’t change how the other Dalish look at me, or at you,” Zevran counters simply, _“Superfluous.”_

There’s grumbling all around, and it seems nobody is in a good mood by the time they set off on their daily chores.

When Hamal finally rejoins the camp, he acts as if nothing has happened.

Zevran watches him make a beeline for Alistair, and launch into an action plan of all that needs to be done: the Dalish camp is in need of supplies, medicine, and added security, and there is a merchant there who is willing to trade with them, an old friend of his father’s, in fact, and he would like to get a patrol out to the forest by tomorrow if possible, and—

Alistair stops him, cutting him off practically mid-word.

“That all sounds dandy, Hamal!” he snaps. “When were you planning on telling us you weren’t coming back last night?”

Hamal blinks. Even Zevran feels his eyebrows quirk upwards in surprise as Alistair continues.

“What if something had happened to you?” he asks. “Especially after what the keeper told us, about the dangers in these woods… not to mention, we have a guard schedule to keep, and I had to cover your turn! I would have worried all night if Zevran hadn’t gone after you!”

Zevran’s eyebrows immediately furrow, and he looks away, avoiding the two Wardens.

“Wait- what?” Hamal says, still trying to process the fact that he is being scolded by _Alistair_ of all people.

“That’s right!” Alistair says simply. “You have people looking out for you, you know! So next time, think about how your actions impact others.”

“… Sorry?” Hamal offers.

“Apology accepted. Just don’t do it again.”

Alistair storms off for good measure, leaving a very stunned Hamal in his wake.

Hamal glances over at Zevran.

Zevran’s brain scrambles for a response. He points at Hamal, winks, then turns and walks away.

Sloppy. Very poor execution.

“Zevran, wait.”

Zevran stops, then mentally chides himself for being so easily subdued. But in a moment Hamal is easily upon him, hugging him from behind, propping his chin against his shoulder. “I’m sorry I worried you,” he says, kissing his neck. “I am a fool. Forgive me! Forgive me, _vehnan.”_

Zevran grins. “Oh? Did Alistair not chastise you enough for one day?”

“Not sure,” Hamal mutters against his skin. “I could probably use some more _chastising_.”

“Ha! Really?”

“Mm, Zev. Gotta make it up to you somehow.”

Zevran is vaguely aware of the fact that he’s smiling stupidly at nothing. For a moment he allows himself to just stand there, enjoying the softness of all that is going on across his shoulders and neck and, oh, his ear as well. But the memories of last night’s overheard conversation gnaw at him. “… You don’t seem surprised to hear that I went looking for you,” he says finally.

“Someone at the surveillance post mentioned you asked about me,” Hamal says.

_Ah,_ Zevran thinks. That does make sense. It seems his eavesdropping has gone unnoticed.

This should be a good thing, something to compartmentalize and set aside. It would be easy to act like he’d heard nothing last night. If Hamal had intended for him to know about Tamlen, he would have surely told him by now. Why should it surprise him that Hamal be closer and more open around his people, and an old friend, at that?

It comes as a stark reminder that the Warden has a whole life that came before Zevran, and it extends far beyond the space the assassin occupies now. He should be relieved. And yet…

And yet.

“Anyway!” Hamal says, interrupting that though. He steps away, smiling, “I need to find Bodahn. I want to borrow Keeva for a few hours.”

That does catch Zevran’s attention, grinding his harried train of thought into a halt. “Why?” he asks, raising an eyebrow.

“I’d like to show her around the camp. I think she would like it.”

He says it so straightforwardly, as if it should be evident. But Zevran shakes his head, still not seeing much of a connection. “That child spent her whole life in Redcliffe. I see no reason why she should care for visiting a Dalish camp. If it’s because she is an elf-”

“No, it isn’t. It’s…” Hamal sighs, hesitates and frowns, a sure sign that he is fumbling with his explanation. “It’s her ears,” he says finally. “She’s self-conscious about them and I think I know a way to make her feel better. There’s someone I’d like her to meet.”

“Who?” Zevran asks, though he is beginning to understand what Hamal is getting at.

Zevran had not yet joined the Wardens when they found Keeva, weeping and hiding in a kitchen cabinet at Redcliffe castle. He heard plenty about it though, from the brash little girl herself, who had told him matter-of-factly, ‘they got chopped off! hurt awful’.

Hamal explains as they head to Bodahn’s cart. “One of the members of the clan is actually an old friend of mine. They’re here as an apprentice to the clan’s healer.”

“A fortunate coincidence,” Zevran says.

“I have known Mathuin for many years. Seeing them again was… well, I was not expecting it,” Hamal says. “Actually, Zevran, I was rather hoping to introduce you to them as well.”

Zevran blinks. That surprises him, for reasons he doesn’t want to puzzle out. It feels strangely personal, this business of old friendships and introductions. But Hamal is already waving Bodahn down, greeting Sandal and Keeva, and explaining his intentions to take Keeva with him to the camp.

“Absolutely not,” Bodahn says plainly.

“But-!”

“First you tell us we need to stay in our own camp, because of werewolves, an’ everyone being jumpy around strangers, then you want to take off with the child willy-nilly? I’m her guardian, and I say no.”

Hamal crosses his arms. “Fair enough,” he says. “Come with us, then! You can trade with Varathorn and be close by should anything happen.”

Bodahn considers that suggestion. Then, he looks at Sandal and Keeva. “It's up to you. Whad’ya say, kids? Feel up to it?”

Keeva looks up. “Will there be halla?” she asks simply.

“Yes,” Hamal says.

Keeva gives the matter some real thought before answering.

“Okay, I’ll go. Leliana got to see one, but Sandal and I didn’t!”

“No fair,” Sandal agrees.

Bodahn just laughs. “Well, there you have it! Let me just grab some of my things, and we’ll go!”

 

They’re an odd little group, headed by Hamal and Keeva, with Bodahn and Sandal close behind, carrying packs of medicines and wares. Zevran keeps his distance, content to listen to Hamal and Keeva’s conversation, which meanders in its typically entertaining fashion.

“But why do they have to watch us?” Keeva asks.

“Sometimes people get nervous after a lot of bad things happen,” Hamal says. “They need time until they feel ready to trust others.”

“But we are _Wardens_ ,” Keeva exclaims. “All we do is help. People should trust us!”

“Well, _you_ are not a Warden, _da’len_ ,” Hamal calmly explains. “And just because we have done good elsewhere doesn’t mean people everywhere will welcome us.”

“Well, I’m going to be a Warden!” Keeva says.

“No you’re not,” Hamal counters.

“Yeah. I’m going to become the greatest Warden, and ride a griffin.”

“No you ain’t,” Bodahn says.

“I am too! Ugh! You never let me do anything!” She is upset now, dashing back to Sandal’s side, while Hamal looks on in utter bewilderment.

_Kids_ , Zevran thinks, smiling.

When they arrive, they are greeted by Lanaya, The Keeper’s First. She exchanges warm greetings with Hamal, pleasantly introduces herself to Zevran and the Feddics, and then drops to one knee to talk to Keeva.

“Welcome, _lethallan!_ What a pleasure to meet such an esteemed friend of the Wardens!” she says.

“I’m a Warden, too,” Keeva says, and Bodahn rubs at his eyes, stressed.

“Forgive my mistake,” Lanaya laughs. “Please, enjoy your visit, Warden Keeva.”

And she does. Whatever Hamal told them, the clan seems primed to welcome this little elf and compliment her shiny braids, her dark brown eyes, and her wit. Bodahn and Sandal are received a little more warily, but Varathorn and Bodahn quickly strike up a rapport, and set about discussing business.

Zevran feels rather odd about it. It feels like Keeva is being manipulated. But it’s an ugly thought, and he quickly reminds himself not to be so cynical.

Finally, after talking to seemingly everyone (how Hamal got on first-name basis with half the clan in a single day is anyone’s guess), they make their way to Mathuin.

Zevran looks them over, deeply aware of the last time he had set eyes on them, the night before. Gone is the heaviness in their posture; in daylight, they are tall, with deep set doe eyes, thick dark hair that is pulled back, and a tattoo that eclipses half of their face in vines and curves and little thorns. Their ears, cleanly cut away, are nothing but shiny scar tissue.

“Hamal! It’s good to see you,” they greet, warmly. “And… Hamal’s friends! I don’t believe we’ve met.”

“Zevran Arainai,” Zevran states, perhaps too quickly; he is tired of being touted around without the chance to introduce himself properly. “A pleasure.”

“Zevran! I have heard _so much_ about you.”

Hamal hums loudly. Mathuin risks a practiced wink at Zevran. Before anyone can ask further, Keeva takes a deep breath.

“I’m Keeva!” she says, then, far more quietly, “What happened to you?”

Zevran and Hamal glance at one another, surprised that the introduction got to the point far more quickly than anticipated, but Mathuin simply smiles. They crouch before the child.

“Some awful people did this to me. It was sad when it happened. But I’m alright now.”

Keeva nods thoughtfully. “Mine got fed to a dog,” she says. “Are you a boy or a girl?”

They grin broadly, dark eyes sparkling. “I am whatever I want to be!”

“I didn’t know! I didn’t know we could do that!” Keeva seems to vibrate with excitement, looking up at Hamal and Zevran. “Did _you_ know?”

“Yes,” Hamal says.

“Would you like to know my name?” Mathuin asks after Keeva spends a few more seconds reveling in this new information.

Her eyes widen more, if that were possible. “What is it?” she asks.

“Mathuin Tilorsehn.”

They hit it off swimmingly after that. Keeva wants to know everything about them, so she and Mathuin chat for an hour, with Zevran and Hamal being only passive participants, answering occasional questions and comments. Many of the questions are about halla. Some are about griffins, or candy.

Hamal is swaying, slow and smooth, as he tends to do subconsciously when happy. “Knew it’d go well,” he says, smiling. Zevran feels that odd little ache again, same as before, honeyed and sore under his ribs. Troubling, but quickly set aside in favor of watching Keeva heal before their eyes.

The visit ends with Bodahn and Sandal coming to collect Keeva. She runs back to them, is greeted by smiles and hugs, and it seems the child will not stop talking the whole way back. But that is a matter for Bodahn to handle.

Mathuin watches them leave, their cheeks sore from smiling.

“Cute family,” they say.

Hamal nods. “Thank you so much for granting us your time, Mathuin. I know you are busy and have things to do elsewhere… but it’s just what was needed, I think.”

“Oh, it was no trouble,” Mathuin says warmly. “The child is a delight. And I rather enjoyed meeting _you_ as well, Zevran.”

“Me?” Zevran’s lips quirk into a smile. “I’ve barely said a word.”

“Which is exactly why we’ll talk again very soon,” Mathuin says cryptically. “I must be getting back to the healer’s tent, but please, do come by and chat sometime. I insist!”

Hamal squints at them, suspicious. “What are you planning, Mathuin?”

“Why, simply to share embarrassing childhood stories with your special friend, of course!”

“What!” Hamal reddens, scandalized, but Mathuin is already hurrying away.

And if that wasn’t bad enough, Zevran laughs, shouting after them, _“It’s a deal!”_

 

The day concludes with a growing sense of collaboration between the camps. It is not quite enough to warrant the removal of the surveillance post just yet, but the medicine and supplies are more than appreciated, and some of the clan’s warriors join the Wardens’ campfire that evening to discuss plans for leading a party into the forest the following day.

When Zevran announces that he is retiring for the evening, Hamal bids the group good night as well. He even makes it a point to take his hand, helping him up, holding tight.

Zevran does not miss the way the visiting warriors glance at one another as they leave.

There are all sorts of undercurrents to the gesture. Is Hamal sending some unspoken message to the clan? Is he showing him off? Does it matter? Whatever the case, he likes this boldness from the Warden. His earlier promise about making last night up to him rings in his thoughts.

“Hm,” Zevran says thoughtfully as he is led directly to his tent. “You haven’t set up your tent, have you?”

“Is that a problem?” Hamal asks, laughing and ducking in after him. He laces their fingers playfully together, tugs at him, closing the distance between them, sweet and soft and familiar.

And it should be simple. He had promised, had he not? That he would ask nothing more of him than he was willing to give? But Zevran was never practiced in the ways of grief and love. He could revile himself for it, but in this half-light, under the Warden’s gaze, he feels strangely still.

“It is lazy,” Zevran teases, kissing along his jawline and ending in a teasing whisper to his ear. “We have been here how long, now? _Pura flojera.”_

The foreign words tickle in the curve of his ear. _“Vehnan,”_ Hamal laughs, and the sound tapers into a contented sigh.

“I’d be here even if I _had_ set up my tent.”

 

Early that morning, Zevran wakes up first, and watches him for a while.

He’s seen him take down ogres with fearless abandon, and face dragons and darkspawn undaunted. Strange to think that this is the same man.

The Warden is still asleep, his pale eyelashes flickering with dreaming. His hair is a debauched mess, like a bird's nest, the pale strands sticking out everywhere. His ear gauges are out, as he prefers to not sleep with them on. The _vallaslin_ on his skin trace graceful contours across his face, dipping across the nape of his neck, spilling onto his back. Zevran would reach out and touch them, but he doesn’t want to wake him. He likes how they feel against his fingers though: surprisingly rough, the edges slightly raised.

Damn him. Hamal Mahariel is beautiful.

Zevran closes his eyes at the thought and smiles.

He still does not know if he has a place in his world at all. The answer feels like a no—but he intends to do what he can for him, for however long the Warden will have him. Hamal certainly deserves all that, and more.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zevran and the Warden have a talk about the past.

Today the clan offers two halla and a small aravel to assist with transporting supplies between the camps.

Hamal takes Zevran with him to the pens where the halla are kept. He explains that about half of the clan’s halla escaped during a recent attack, and the clan is still working on retrieving the ones they lost. It is a matter of great urgency; the clan relies on the halla for transportation, clothing, tools, not to mention food. To share them with outsiders is no small offer.

Elora, the halla keeper, greets them and invites them to choose which of the halla will have the honor of being ‘halla diplomats’, as she calls it, chuckling.

“Any, except this one here,” she says, gesturing to a small female who appears to be separated from the herd.

“What is wrong with this one?” Hamal asks, predictably, already petting the creature’s velvety nose.

“I am not certain, but I suspect she may have been bitten during the last attack.”

Hamal circles around, looking closely at the creature from all angles. He touches the halla’s legs, gently testing each one for injuries, but finds none. “Seems fine to me… a bit lethargic, though.”

“That is why I am uncertain.” Elora lets out a sigh. “I can find no wound on her, but I cannot think of why else she would be so agitated. She won’t eat… she just stays in one spot, trembling. If she _was_ bitten, I would have no choice but to put her out of her misery.”

Hearing that, the Warden frowns and covers the halla’s ears.

A fond smile briefly visits Zevran’s lips. Normally he would not give the issue a second thought, but he finds himself feeling invested by sheer virtue of Hamal’s involvement. The fact of the matter is: if it’s important to the Warden, it’s important to him. And _everything_ , it seems, is important to the Warden.

Alas.

“Where is her mate?” Zevran asks after a moment, looking out at the enclosure.

“She has none. Why do you ask?”

“Well, she is pregnant, yes? Look at her antlers. No velvet. A bit late for the season, wouldn’t you think?”

Elora stares at him for a moment before looking back at the halla, which has calmed down some with Hamal’s attention. “Creators! You are right, _lethallin_. I had not noticed, with everything else going on!”

Zevran is briefly surprised; he has not been called _‘lethallin’_ in many years. It’s unexpected, but he keeps the thought to himself, watching as Elora flits around the halla excitedly.

“I see! It is her life mate who is sick,” she says finally. “He was bitten during the attack. I did not realize another halla was injured… this could be disastrous.”

“Does that mean her lifemate will have to be put down?” Hamal asks, wide eyed, even as he already knows the answer.

“To prevent the illness from spreading and affecting the herd… yes, I am afraid so.”

Even for the Dalish, who are known for being open with their emotions, the Warden surprises with his rare displays of softness. Hamal leans on the halla’s flank, burying his face in her fur.

“We should hold off on borrowing the halla, I think,” he says finally. “Thank you for the offer, Elora, but I want the herd to be properly taken care of before risking anything.”

 “Thank you for understanding.” Elora nods. She then turns to Zevran, and, before he can say anything, pulls him into a tight hug. “ _Ma sirannas!_ You do not know what you have done for our clan, Zevran. I will always be grateful for your help.”

“Ah! You are very welcome, my dear woman,” Zevran says, awkwardly patting her shoulder.

With that, she leaves to tend to the rest of the herd, energized by their discovery.

Zevran is left alone with the Warden, who is beaming at him as if he has hung every star in the sky. It is a rare look, even from him; it’s hard to know what to do with it.

“Are you not itchy?” Zevran asks finally, laughing under that gaze. “Halla fur is so bristly and uncomfortable. Look, you are covered in it!”

“You are brilliant,” Hamal says, ignoring his question. “How did you know?”

“Common sense?” Zevran offers.

“Hardly! You are a marvel.”

Zevran smiles, and spends an idle moment picking halla fur off the Warden’s shirt.

“Well, my mother was Dalish,” he admits finally, shaking fur off his hands. “Or so I am told. I also spent a very brief time among a Dalish clan in Antiva, once, many years ago.”

“You never mentioned that!” Hamal’s voice can barely contain his awe, earning another soft laugh from Zevran.

“Are you shocked?”

“A bit. Please, can you tell me about her?”

“There is not much to tell, my Warden! But, if you insist…”

 

As they head back together, Zevran wonders how to proceed. He is usually great at telling stories, but this feels less like a story and more like a fragment of mythology; something formative and personal, despite being purely hearsay.

“My mother left her clan after meeting my father,” he begins. “He was a woodcutter from the capital. I do not know what he must have said to convince her to leave everything behind. Her home, her family, her culture…”

“She must have cared for him a great deal,” Hamal says warmly.

“Who knows? If she did she gained nothing for it.”

Hamal looks at him, and Zevran continues with fair warning.

“I am afraid this is not a very happy tale. Shall I summarize it for you? In short, after moving to the city, he died of some filthy disease, and she was forced into prostitution to pay off his debts.”

Hamal’s face falls instantly. “That’s…”

“The oldest tale in the book,” Zevran says, and gives him a reassuring pat.

“I wouldn’t say she gained nothing, though. She had you, after all!”

“She died giving birth to me. My first victim, as it were. But do not concern yourself over what is in the past. It’s not as if I was unique in my tragedy. In my eyes, I was no different than the other orphans in the whorehouse.”

Of this, Hamal knows a little. He thinks back on the brief mentions Zevran has made of his upbringing. “Were there many of you there?” he asks finally.

“Yes, humans and elves. We lived in a small apartment behind the brothel, where we were raised communally by the prostitutes. It was a happy enough existence while it lasted, ignoring the occasional beating.”

“Zev,” Hamal says, and it is a wonder how he packs so much sympathy and affection into that one syllable. It makes Zevran turn away, avoiding his eyes.

“I have no complaints. We were fed every day, and we had a roof over our heads. Eventually, however, most of the children were purchased by the Crows, myself included. I was seven. I bought a good price, so I hear.”

The discomfort of being pitied has turned his voice bitter and flat. It strikes him suddenly that this is not the sort of conversation that is had by normal, well-adjusted people. This had started on a happy note, after all. And while he hadn’t intended to be such a killjoy, the words keep coming for reasons he cannot quite grasp.

They’re like those memories which haunt him as of late. Uncalled for and intrusive.

Perhaps that is why Hamal doesn’t bring up the things that trouble him, like the nightmares, and Tamlen; for fear that the bitterness will not stop pouring.

Zevran will have to examine this later, when he has something to drink. As it is now, he is beginning to feel scrutinized. Hamal is still staring at him, silent for a few long seconds.

_“Ir abelas, vehnan,”_ he says finally.

“That is kind of you,” Zevran says, “but it is not necessary. I’ve been quite lucky. Shall I tell you what would have happened had I _not_ been bought by the Crows?”

“No,” Hamal says quickly. “I can imagine.” Then, unbidden, he leans close and presses a kiss to his cheek.

Zevran feels a sudden wave of guilt and bewilderment. The gesture is so out of place, so utterly without context… all he can do is stop mid-stride, and look at the Warden.

“You mentioned the Dalish?” Hamal prompts after a moment, casually moving away from him, and away from that earth-shattering moment.

“Ah… right,” Zevran clears his throat. “Are you… sure you want to continue? I’m afraid the story does not get any happier.”

“I’d like to know,” Hamal insists. “But only if you’d like to share.”

Zevran hesitates. It had not been his intention to spill his whole life story in such detail. Already he has the feeling of having said too much, things about his parents and his childhood—things he has never told anyone else. And yet, it is _interesting_ that the Warden is asking to hear more, sad story or no.

He asks as if there is nothing Zevran could say that would change how he looks at him. He asks, prepared for answers he may not like. Or non-answers, as it were.

So, Zevran surprises himself by continuing.

“Growing up,” he says finally, “the one thing of my mother’s that I possessed was a pair of gloves. They were of Dalish make, and _beautiful_.”

“What did they look like?”

Though it has been years since he last saw them, the image of the gloves comes to mind easily. "Halla leather lined in rabbit fur,” he says, “with such delicate embroidery… I had to hold them up close to my eyes to see the tiny details.”

“I think I know the sort of gloves you speak of. Do you remember what was embroidered on them?” Hamal asks.

Zevran gives it some thought. “Different creatures. An owl, its wings outstretched. A halla, running. A dragon, a wolf…” he says. “Why?”

“ _One sees the hunter, one flees from him, one hunts him in turn, and one outwits them all_ ,” Hamal explains, smiling. “It is a common practice among our people. Such gloves often contain riddles or tales with specific messages to help the wearer.”

“A sort of good luck charm?” Zevran asks. Pulled in by the irony of the gloves and their meaning, he imagines his mother wearing the gloves. As always, her face is missing. The thought feels foreign, and it troubles him, for he is left as a stranger in his own imaginings.

“I must say, they did not do her a whole lot of good,” he says, frowning. “Nor me, either. But truthfully it doesn’t matter—I was a child, and they were simply all I had of her.”

“Ah,” Hamal says softly. “It’s hard, isn’t it? My mother made sure not to leave anything behind when she left, and most of my father’s belongings were inherited by our new Keeper, or given away. I know it’s not the same at all, but… it is hard, not having anything of theirs. Not even memories.”

Zevran looks at him, struck by both the strange experience of being perfectly understood, and the sharp contrast between their upbringings.

In losing his parents Hamal had not been denied a home and a culture. But he had been, despite it all, an orphaned child too.

In different ways, loss had marked them both, singling them out in infancy. None of it was fair, in the end, for either of them.

Zevran loops an arm around Hamal’s shoulder, pondering this gravely. “Ay, amor,” he says. “People like you and I are not the product of happy lives of contentment, after all.”

“Woe unto us,” Hamal agrees with a sigh, and Zevran cannot hold back a short laugh.

Somehow he feels lighter.

“Tragedy aside, it brings me to the end of the tale—when the opportunity presented itself, I tracked down and joined a nearby clan. My mother’s Dalish background had remained a point of fascination for me all my life, so, I longed to be with her people… perhaps regain a bit of what was lost.”

Zevran pauses and lets out a bitter chuckle. “I lasted all of two weeks. Naturally, the reality did not live up at all to the fantasies I had constructed as a boy, staring at those gloves…”

“You went back to the Crows,” Hamal says slowly.

“It was for the best.”

They have reached the Wardens’ camp by now, where Alistair is busy finalizing preparations to head into the woods. He waves them down when they arrive, then looks around, confused.

“Where are the halla?” he asks.

“No halla,” Hamal tells him. “One was bitten during the attack. They are under quarantine.”

“No halla! Well that’s just our luck,” Alistair sighs. “I’m glad you two are back, at least. We’re going to the woods presently! Gear up. Maybe get all that halla fur off your shirt. Or don’t, if that’s your thing. I’m not judging.” With that the senior Gray Warden chuckles to himself and goes to fetch the others.

Hamal looks at Zevran, stealing one final moment before pressing obligations take hold.

“Sometimes it seems to me that suffering is as much a part of our heritage as the halla are,” he says. “But… I cannot help but wish that I had known you back then. Maybe we could have helped one another.”

Zevran blinks. “I… I’m not sure. What a strange thing to wish! You would not have liked me, my dear Warden, had we met during those times.”

“As you say, it is in the past.”

Hamal goes to grab his gear. They move on to other matters, and do not speak of it further.


	4. Chapter 4

Having prepared as well as they can, the Wardens strike out into the woods, keeping in close formation: Zevran and Hamal in front, Leliana and Alistair in back, with Morrigan flitting overhead as a raven.

“Please do not fly over me,” Alistair hisses. “I am _full_ of mistrust.”

“I keep telling you, that was not Morrigan,” Hamal sighs from up ahead. “It was just a raven that _looked_ like Morrigan.”

The raven caws indignantly.

Alistair grumbles, unconvinced.

Not knowing where to start they simply seek anything unusual, but despite Morrigan’s aerial view, they keep getting turned around. The same landmarks are passed again and again. It is as if the forest is trying to lose them.

They do find plenty of blighted wildlife, which worries the Wardens.

“I don’t sense any darkspawn. Do you?” Alistair asks when they have taken down their second blighted wolf.

“No,” Hamal says. “But it is only a matter of time. When the darkspawn horde reaches the forest, the clan will have to leave, cure or no cure.” He looks at Alistair, somber. “The werewolves keep hidden when not ambushing their prey; they attack, then retreat. But the darkspawn will not retreat. They will attack, and they will not stop until everyone is dead.”

“Regular ray of sunshine today, aren’t you?” Alistair asks dryly.

Hamal glares.

They press on.

 

They have come to a clearing in the forest when Morrigan, still in her raven form, begins to caw urgently from above. Diving through the branches, she lands in a half-run, motioning for everyone to halt.

“Turn back now! ‘Tis dangerous -”

Before she can explain further, one of the trees _moves_.

It crashes toward them with the sound of splitting wood, an old oak tree (except most oak trees don’t uproot themselves for the sake of violence).

Its bough swings in a deliberate arc and collides against a hastily constructed force field Morrigan has placed around them. The impact splinters the tree, but does not weaken it. Aggravated, it lets loose a furious sound—not quite a roar, something neither human nor animal—pure rage echoing through the forest.

“It has a mouth,” Zevran notes, eyebrows raised, but otherwise nonplussed.

“I’ll handle this!” Hamal shouts, drawing his sword.

“No, you will _not_ ,” Zevran counters, with the cadence of a frustrated guardian.

Morrigan rolls her eyes, somewhat hoping the tree knocks some sense into the idiots she travels with. “Fools,” she utters, then, louder, “ _Get_ _back!_ You cannot win this fight with a sword!”

The tree makes to charge, and not even Hamal is stubborn enough to argue. He allows Zevran to pull him away, while Alistair yanks Leliana backwards to avoid another swinging branch.

“Freeze it, Morrigan!” the senior Warden shouts.

Morrigan does not waste any time. She draws her stave and tosses it from one hand to the other in a flourish, letting the magic build; then, she casts a shock of winter, something unnaturally cold—strong enough to leave them all shivering as the magic blasts toward the tree.

The sylvan stumbles, slows down, and bends. The magic leaves icicles on its branches, curiously out of place for the season, and though the ice is breaking off in pieces, falling apart, it rushes at them again.

Another cold blast comes from Morrigan’s fingertips. Alistair has his shield out, for whatever good it will do, while Zevran and Hamal dash around to avoid it, separating from the group.

Whatever the tree can fathom in its wooden construct of a mind, it singles them out as a weak point, and swings around to face them.

“It thinks this the easier fight? I’m rather offended,” Hamal laughs.

“Be offended after it’s down,” Zevran warns. “I would hate for you to get crushed because you were too busy underestimating a tree, of all things.”

But despite Zevran’s warning, it soon becomes clear that they will win this fight. The sylvan is visibly weakened by Morrigan’s magic. As all trees must, it slowly succumbs to the cold. It sheds its leaves as it dies, leaving the air aflutter with color and light. Watching it feels a bit like fast-forwarding through autumn and winter.

Seeing an opportunity, Hamal leaps up and breaks off another of the main branches. The tree strikes out at him, but he avoids it, as another freezing spell lands on the tree from behind. Hamal and Morrigan make short work of it together, her magic creating weak points for him to strike.

Then, finally, there comes a lull. The crunch of leaves underfoot is the only sound as the sylvan stops its thrashing for a moment—before lashing out one final attack in Hamal’s direction.

It is too fast for him to dodge or for Morrigan to intervene. Hamal braces himself, but Zevran is quicker; he places himself between the Warden and the blow. The branch catches him squarely from the side, and his armor absorbs the impact, knocking him back. In quick succession, Hamal pulls Zevran out of the tree’s range.

Suddenly an axe embeds itself into the trunk, and the sylvan lets out a pained groan, before going down for good.

Everyone turns to look at Leliana.

“I wanted to participate,” she explains.

The group seems to release a collective breath in the aftermath of that battle. Altogether it must have lasted no more than five minutes; but their surroundings now seem more dangerous than before, lurking with unseen enemies.

“Everyone alright? Maker.” Alistair catches his breath. “Are there more of these? How can we be sure the whole forest isn’t going to attack us?” he asks Morrigan.

Morrigan eyes the woods around them. “We are safe for now, but we cannot assume this will be the case for long. My advice: We choose another direction to follow.”

“Let’s double back, then.” Alistair holds back a shudder, continuing in a whispered aside. “Demons and trees. Demons _in_ trees. Maker…”

As they leave, Hamal is compelled to take a moment and linger with Zevran. He wordlessly touches his face, hands smoothing over the fabric and leather buckles of his armor. Checking.

“I warned you not to underestimate it, you see? It nearly caught you across the head.” Zevran winks at him.

“You sure you’re alright?” Hamal asks, unconvinced.

“Just sore. No need to fuss. Wouldn’t want all this attention to go to my head.”

Hamal lets out a rush of air. He picks up his sword, but not before leaning his forehead briefly against Zevran’s shoulder. Not a hug. Just a touch. Zevran would laugh, but now that the adrenaline is wearing off, he finds that his side is feeling quite painful.

Pain, at least, is something he can swallow. As they move on through the forest he finds some elfroot growing by a fallen log, and discreetly holds some of its stem between his teeth, to dull the throbbing along the curve of his chest beneath his right shoulder.

In this manner, they search for hours. They find no werewolves, but are surprised to discover a warrior from the Dalish clan—dehydrated, unconscious, but unharmed.

His name is Deygan. He explains that he has spent days tracking down werewolves after the last attack, pursuing them even after running out of rations, until his strength failed him and left him stranded here.

The story catches their attention; it seems to suggest they are heading in the right direction, and they are emboldened to continue.

But it is late, and Deygan, terrified, stammers something about demons in the woods. Recalling their earlier encounter with the sylvan, they agree to head back.

 

Strangely, they reach the Dalish camp in less than an hour.

“Magic,” Morrigan comments. “Powerful magic.”

The long shadows of the trees and aravels make it clear that is too late to try another excursion today. Besides, they have cause to celebrate. The clan is relieved to have another of their number returned safely, as they had begun planning Deygan’s funeral that very morning.

“They’re calling back the guards who had been sent to observe your camp, _lethallin_ ,” Mathuin tells Hamal once Deygan has been seen to the healer’s tents.

They sit together at the fire, where everyone is resting and enjoying a dinner of roasted quails.

“One of the guards is his sister you know,” they continue. “I believe she said she would rather be with her brother, than spend another hour observing the Warden’s camp. She mentioned that your allies are somehow both strange _and_ boring to look at, and not a threat at all.”

“Well, it is not untrue,” Hamal says, grinning. “But I am pleased to hear we were dull enough that the surveillance post was called off.”

Mathuin laughs at that, cradling their drink in their hands.

They are nearly entirely relaxed when their eyes fall on Zevran, sitting quietly at Hamal's other side. Mathuin blinks, zeroing in their attention on him. “Are you alright?” they ask, setting down their cup.

Zevran glances up, distracted. He had been letting his thoughts drift, eased by the drink and warm company. “Just bruised,” he says with a slow smile. “But how-?”

“I can sense your injury, even from here. It’s… loud.” Mathuin sighs and makes a noncommittal gesture. “The whole camp is loud, mind you, with so many sick and hurt around… but your pain is different.”

Hamal hums, baffled. “We had a little skirmish in the woods. You’re quite perceptive, aren’t you, Mathuin?”

“It’s a healer thing.”

“Seems more like a Mathuin thing to me, _lethallen_.”

Zevran rolls his shoulders, stretching carefully. “There is some pain, but it’s nothing unmanageable.”

“Still, I’d like to give it a look. If I may?”

With Zevran’s permission Mathuin is up in a blink, hurrying over to him, their dinner forgotten. They lean in and close their eyes, as if listening to the injury.

“This sounds broken,” they say finally. “How have you not fainted from agony? We need to heal it, as quickly as possible.”

“Are you sure, Mathuin?” Hamal asks. He peers closely at Zevran, who, blinking owlishly back, remains perfectly composed.

“I am never wrong,” Mathuin says with certainty. “We must treat it now.”

“What’s going on?” Leliana asks, having wandered from the other side of the fire to join them.

“Zevran is hurt.”

“Oh, no,” Leliana sighs. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

“There is no need to sound so dire,” Zevran says, and tries to smile reassuringly. “I will be fine.”

“You could have been fine much sooner, if you had only told someone,” Mathuin scolds. “It is just a small fracture, but you’ve made it so much worse by ignoring it, Zevran.”

“Was it from the sylvan?” Leliana asks. “Oh, I should have thrown my axe sooner! Blast.”

“What’s going on?” Alistair asks, overhearing the commotion.

The flurry of attention makes Zevran far more uncomfortable than any injury could. Pain is easy; this, however, is a lot more difficult to navigate, and he finds himself at a loss for words, with the unpleasant feeling of having misjudged his own circumstances.

“Nothing’s going on,” Hamal says suddenly. His hand finds Zevran’s, and he carefully pulls him up, away from the campfire. “We’ll handle it. Let’s go.”

Together with Mathuin they leave the campfire, food and drink forgotten.

As they walk to Mathuin’s tent, Zevran has a haze of apologies floating around in his mind, but he does not utter them. He wouldn’t be saying anything new or constructive, and in any case, he thinks Hamal understands more or less how he’s feeling.

The truth is they both share an unfortunate habit of making reckless decisions, paired with a tendency for brash self-deprecation. These things happen. It is simply understood. Still, it is disappointing to feel this way.

Zevran sighs, annoyed with himself. Hamal squeezes his hand.

 

He sits still as Mathuin tests his injury, gently feeling the painful area with their fingertips.

They are using magic to gauge where exactly the spell needs to sit, and for how long. A moment passes, and they reach for their staff—a simple branch of yew with an owl skull perched atop, wrapped in leather braids tied to smooth river stones.

Mathuin yanks one of these stones free. It is greenish, covered in little runes, and Zevran catches a glimpse of its magic before Mathuin presses it onto his skin, over the offending rib. Relief follows almost instantly.

Zevran sighs, letting his eyes fall shut as the waves of magic settle on his muscles and bone. It is the first time all night that he has allowed himself to react without thinking or filtering, and he realizes the pain must have been weighing on him more heavily than he’d thought.

“It’s not broken anymore,” Mathuin says, “But you’ll need to rest and take it easy for a few days. Nothing rowdy, understand?” Here Mathuin pauses and fixes Hamal with a stare. _“Understand?”_

“What is _that_ supposed to mean?” Hamal asks, offended. Then he thinks better of it. “Oh, nevermind. Thank you, Mathuin, I’ll make sure he rests.”

Still reeling from the sudden relief, Zevran discovers he can laugh again—albeit, very carefully. His shoulders shake and he covers his mouth, amused. “You heard the healer. Nothing rowdy! I know it will be difficult to resist, but please. It is for my health!”

“I am serious!” Mathuin scolds. “My magic did not undo the fracture, it simply healed it partway. I threw in a spell to help you sleep, as you may find it uncomfortable to lay on it otherwise. Just be thankful it was not worse! A bone could have pierced your lung!”

“Hear that? A _bone_ could pierce my lung _, amor!_ ”

“Oh, Creators,” Mathuin sighs, their warnings clearly falling on deaf ears.

“I am glad you’re feeling better,” Hamal says. “You are a smart-ass, though, and I hold no sympathy for you.”

“Hamal!” Mathuin looks at him sternly.

“No sympathy,” Hamal repeats, even as he helps Zevran put his shirt back on. “None!”

“Ahh, I thought it was pretty funny… You should listen to the healer. I am fragile right now…”

Mathuin wants to roll their eyes, but it’s hard to stay annoyed with how they’re carrying on. It is no wonder these two get along the way they do. They are both flippant, reckless, and utterly absorbed in one another; the way they lean together, laughing despite the pain. Mathuin considers magicking them both into silence—for Zevran’s health, of course. Ah, if only all their patients were so easily managed.

“How did it happen, anyway?” they ask instead.

“Tree,” Zevran responds without thinking.

Mathuin snorts in surprise. “What?” they ask, and Zevran looks at them, wide-eyed.

“It was possessed! It attacked us!” he hurries to explain. “This was no normal tree.”

“It was my fault, anyway,” Hamal adds. His playfulness is finally subsiding as he considers the gravity of what could have happened, had the fight gone differently. “I should have been more careful. You got hurt protecting me…”

Clearing his throat after a moment, Hamal pauses and glances at Mathuin.

“What? _Leave?_ ” they ask. “This is _my_ tent. Don’t let me interrupt your conversation! Come, I will show you the way out.”

“It is a tent… we know the way out…”

Mathuin shows Zevran and Hamal the way out anyway, tutting and shooing at them all the way.

“And remember! To avoid further injury, you must rest,” Mathuin says as the other two leave. “The spell will catch up to you shortly, so do not be surprised if you suddenly feel very tired. No fighting. No adventuring. Give it time.”

“Sure,” Zevran says, already planning to disregard those orders. “Nothing rowdy.”

“Good night, Mathuin. Thank you again,” Hamal says.

Then they are alone, leaving Mathuin’s tent better than they had arrived.

 

It is quiet as Zevran and Hamal leave the Dalish camp behind them. The weight of that silence is what pushes Hamal into awkwardly finding some way of finishing his earlier thought.

“Well,” he says, glancing at Zevran. “It could have been worse, right?”

“Right,” Zevran agrees.

Zevran waits a moment, letting the other man choose his words.

It’s a trait the Warden has developed in the time he’s known him: thinking before he speaks, even when it’s not his first instinct. Still quick and capricious, but tempered somehow. Less brash than he was mere months ago, more gentle.

Zevran wonders if Mathuin, who has known him longer, would agree.

The Warden sighs.

“Had I been more careful, you wouldn’t have gotten hurt at all,” he says finally.

“I don’t know about that. Who’s to say what would have happened?” Zevran asks. “The future is not for us to guess at. Besides, my own actions got me injured. Don’t feel responsible for me, _mi amor_ , because you are not.”

He says it kindly, but firmly, because it is true—but more than that, it is _necessary_. Hamal shoulders so much responsibility already, and as usual he is overthinking and overreacting, when he has already done so much for him. For everyone.

As they make the trek back to camp, Hamal drifts in and out of Zevran’s personal space, brushing against him. There’s something natural and casual to the act, simple as breathing. “I know I’m not responsible,” he admits finally. “Neither are you responsible for me. But you look out for me anyway. You don’t owe me anything, and I don’t owe you anything, but you still look out for me…”

“You have done the same for me many times,” Zevran points out.

“Yes,” Hamal says thoughtfully. “We… we make a good team, right?”

Zevran smiles, not sure what the Warden is trying to say. “That we do,” he agrees.

The night is peaceful, and owls hoot in the dark branches of the trees around them. Sten is keeping guard when they arrive. He looks them over briefly, nods, and says nothing.

Somewhere among the little tents and carts, Keeva is dreaming. Sandal and Bodahn are asleep, too. Alistair fights nightmares, or, Creators willing, he dreams about something pleasant and peaceful. Leliana writes in her journal. Morrigan thinks. Thinks so loudly she can’t sleep.

The stars shine overhead, eclipsed by the trees, and the nighttime mists collect as dew on every surface.

Zevran takes in the serenity of the moment, for one never knows when such moments will end. The cold air is making his chest ache a bit, though, and the magic Mathuin used to help him rest is beginning to make itself known.

They walk past the Warden’s unpacked campsite. They walk until they are standing just outside Zevran’s tent.

“I just wish…” Hamal starts, but cuts himself off abruptly. “Damn it. I don’t know. Just, please, tell someone the next time you get hurt, Zev.”

“Is that what you wish?” Zevran asks, wondering what the Warden had been about to say. His own voice surprises him with its softness. He’s tired.

Hamal glances at him, his eyes briefly catching the starlight. “Earlier, I wondered if we could have helped one another, if we’d met when we were young,” he says. “That is what I wish. To _help_ you. But I can only do that if you tell me when.”

“You want me to tell you when something is troubling me?” Zevran repeats.

“Yes… but I suppose I can understand why you wouldn’t. Creators—what a hypocrite I’d be if I didn’t.” Hamal sighs, clearly giving this a lot of worry and thought. “I’m not saying you have to tell me _everything_. But I need you to know you _can_ tell me _anything_. It is never a bother.”

“I would have brought it up, once I realized the injury was worsening,” Zevran says slowly. “I apologize for worrying you.”

“You don’t need to apologize, Zev,” Hamal says. “And you don’t need to meet a quota of suffering before asking for help. It doesn’t even have to be me you come to when something’s bothering you. Anyone would have helped. Did you see how worried Alistair and Leliana were?”

After a moment Hamal looks up, and finds Zevran staring at him through narrowed and thoughtful eyes. “What?” he asks.

“You are so strange,” Zevran says plainly. It’s all he can say. The logical side of him is shutting down as Mathuin’s sleep spell descends on him, like snowfall—like flurries of contentment, building into banks of peace. It’s nice, in an odd way.

Maybe that’s not wholly the spell’s work—the Warden’s words are so sincere, they’re as powerful a tonic as the healing magic. Because Hamal is asking him to be open with him, yes, but also with _others_. With _himself_. And he doesn’t push; he asks for nothing more than Zevran is willing to give.

That had been their agreement from the start, hadn’t it?

Hamal may not have opened up to him about Tamlen, but he had been able to talk to Mathuin about it… and suddenly that seems something to be thankful for, not anxious over.

Zevran is mulling over these things so patiently, he hasn’t realized that he’s been staring silently at the Warden the whole time.

Hamal clears his throat, awkwardly. “If I’m overstepping just tell me. I can stop-”

“You’re fine,” Zevran assures him. He smiles after a moment. “You worry too much, you know? About everyone and everything, but never about yourself. That is fine, though. I’ll do the worrying about you, for you.”

Hamal laughs, surprised. Through the dark Zevran thinks he can see a blush across his cheekbones, and through this he is emboldened, confident in how he can coax these warm gestures from the Warden. It must mean he’s doing something right if he can get him to smile.

“Do I worry you overmuch?”

“No. Just the right amount, I’d say.”

Zevran hesitates, lowering his gaze at the thought that now occurs to him. Since they are being so frank, now seems an opportune time as any to give voice to it.

“That first night at the camp, when I went looking for you… I overheard you and Mathuin talking.”

“You heard us?” Hamal shuts his mouth, his thoughts falling back to that night. “What did you hear?”

“Not everything,” Zevran says. “But enough. About Tamlen. How you blame yourself. Why you don’t have nightmares anymore.”

“Oh.”

“It was not what I intended to do, when I sought you out. I know it was not my place—but ever since that night, after realizing what you have been through, I cannot stop thinking it. About the past, and about us.” The words come out in a rush, his thoughts half-formed. He takes a breath. “After the nightmares stopped, I thought you wouldn’t have any further use of me. How self-centered! I should have come to you right away, but I didn’t. Are you angry?”

“No,” Hamal says. “Why would I be?”

“I’m… not sure? I left you alone with all that guilt. I assumed, I withdrew. And I… I eavesdropped on your private conversation. By accident, but even so.” He lets out a shallow laugh, surprised at himself. “Hard habit to break I suppose.”

The Warden shrugs lightly. “I figured you were working through something. You seemed like you needed your space. I could never be angry at you for that.”

“But you are angry at yourself, yes?” Zevran looks at him when he doesn't reply. “I understand. I am so, so sorry, though.”

The Warden simply frowns, a deep furrow in his brow, and for a moment Zevran almost thinks he has brought up a painful subject at an inopportune time. Then Hamal sighs and loops his arms around him in a careful embrace.

“ _I missed you_ ,” he says simply. “You’ve been so quiet since Tamlen's funeral. Is that what you’ve been thinking this whole time? That I had no need for you? That would never be true.”

Zevran sighs into his shoulder. “Here I am trying to apologize, and you are still worrying about only me. Do you listen at all, my Warden?”

Hamal lets out a dry laugh. “You should know the answer to that by now.”

“Troubling,” Zevran says. “You sure the tree didn’t knock your head?”

“Pretty sure. You made certain of that. _Emma lath._ ”

They stand in a close hug, Hamal making sure to be careful of his injured side. Zevran suddenly wonders if he is to worry over this kind disaster of a man forever. He is surprised at the thought.

Then, he smiles. Thinks he will have no trouble sleeping tonight, spell or no.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 4/14/19: I rewrote the heckie out of this chapter, and I'm a lot happier with it now! Thanks for reading!


	5. Chapter 5

Once, when Zevran was six years old, he snuck out of the apartment behind the brothel. One of the other children—a new addition to the group—had been weeping for hours, missing his mother. It had grown tiresome enough for Zevran to make a bid for freedom, despite the dire outcome should he get caught.

He snuck along the side of the building in the cover of night. He very nearly made it to the street when a familiar voice caught his attention.

Adelmar’s laughter rang clear through the darkness. It guided him around a corner, where he peered through the gloom, watching her chat with a tall and very well-dressed man.

_“Wait for me, Adelmar,”_ the tall well-dressed man said. _“I promise I will be back for you soon. You can live on my estate, I’ll dress you up in jewels and fine silks, and you’ll never have to work again, my love!”_

_“It sounds like a dream,”_ Adelmar laughed. _“But I do not need jewels and fine silks; only you. Do not make me wait long!”_

Zevran, having heard enough, rushed back to his room tearfully. And later when Adelmar came to visit the children, he confronted her, angry and saddened at her betrayal—not because he resented her good fortune and happiness, but because she was leaving him and the other children behind. What would they do without her?

_“Come here, mi amor,”_ she had laughed. _“No one is going anywhere.”_

_“But you said-!”_

_“I did not mean it, and neither did he. All that talk of coming back for me one day was just… talk. It’s just for fun.”_

_“I don’t understand,”_ Zevran sniffled, even more frustrated now that the ruse had been revealed.

_“You will understand when you’re older,”_ Adelmar said simply. _“People say things like that all the time; ‘you can trust me, I’ll come back for you,’ but they do not mean it. In the end, none of them stay. It’s just to make themselves feel better about what they are doing, I think.”_

_“What are they doing?”_

Adelmar had simply raised an eyebrow and told him to go play with the others.

And true to her prediction, the man was not seen around the brothel again.

 

He must have needed his rest, because in truly uncharacteristic fashion, Zevran sleeps through the morning. He wakes up feeling groggy and unlike himself, some fleeting dream already evaporating from his thoughts. He is surprised to find that he is alone. The Warden has already left.

It is that damn sleep spell that’s to blame. He cannot even gauge what time it is, emerging from his tent, blinking in the late-morning sun.

“They were called away urgently,” Sten soon informs him. “An attempt was made to wake you.”

“Is that so?” Zevran asks. “What was so urgent?”

“I was not told, and I did not ask.”

Zevran hums idly, unsure what answer he’d expected. “Why did you not go with them?”

“I have been to the Dalish camp,” Sten replies. “It was… too frilly.”

“ _Frilly?_ ” Zevran repeats, raising a brow.

Sten does not respond. He is cleaning his sword, looking thoughtful. “We do not have werewolves in Seheron,” he says finally, in an odd change of subject. “If such a thing even exists, I will be curious to see where this all leads.”

“Thank the Maker,” Zevran says. “Qunari werewolves… can you imagine?”

Sten pauses and fixes him with a pointed stare, a sure sign that the conversation is over.

Zevran shrugs, and moves on.

He feels a faint nagging notion that he should leave the Wardens to whatever urgent business they have. After all, Sten does not seem concerned or interested in their absence. If it were an emergency they surely would have left word. Besides, he is supposed to be resting today, anyway.

“Ah, co-dependency,” he whispers disapprovingly to himself.

Well, nobody is perfect, least of all him. It is a fact he has come to realize with harrowing intimacy as of late, but at least he can be honest with himself about his shortcomings.

He allows himself to wallow for a few moments, before reminding himself that he is a grown man, and can handle being left behind from time to time. At the very least it gives him a chance to catch up on things.

With that in mind, he organizes all his supplies, works on new poisons, and after some deliberation, sets up the Warden’s tent for him. Not that it makes him feel better.

Chasing distraction, he joins Wynne for lunch and enjoys his time being as deliberately annoying as possible. But she has business with the Circle mages, so, that quickly ends too.

He mends a few shirts, which is one of those menial tasks that always surprises him with its delicacy of focus.

It kills a couple of hours.

His restlessness grows. The dog barks, somewhere across the camp, playing with Keeva and Sandal. Hamal would smile fondly if he were here, perhaps comment on how the children took his dog from him through unfair means such as ‘being cute’ and ‘sneaking rations to the mabari when they think no one’s looking’. Or maybe he wouldn’t say anything. Who knows? Who cares?

_Co-dependency, co-dependency, co-dependency_ , Zevran chants in his head. That settles it. His chores exhausted, he heads for the Dalish camp. For all he knows, the Wardens have already returned, and are simply coordinating their next actions with the clan’s leaders.

The thought drives him as he hikes through the woods. He’d like to rush, as if reaching the camp sooner would mean putting an end to this restless mood, but his side is still tender, reminding him to slow down. As it is, he is slightly winded when he arrives, greeting the scouts around the camp’s perimeter with none of his usual charm.

But the Wardens are not here either, and the few people he asks do not know anything about it. That, or they are not willing to share what they know.

It occurs to him that this is his first time among the Dalish without Hamal to accompany him. In his hopeful rush to hear some news about the Wardens, he had not stopped to consider what he would do if they were not here. He briefly considers heading back to camp. And then… what? Looking for new and innovative ways of wasting time?

“Are you loitering?”  Mathuin asks him, breaking into his introspective mood like a bird breaking into a house through the open window.

“Just taking a walk,” Zevran says. He squints at the mage, wondering how they managed to get so close without him seeing them sooner. Then, without further preamble, and before his pitiful excuse can be questioned, he asks, “How long ago did they leave?”

“Before sun-up,” Mathuin says. “The werewolves ventured close again last night. Our warriors drove them off. No casualties, but the Wardens were called immediately.”

“Ah.”

“You wouldn’t have gone with them anyway. You’re still recovering.” They poke him in the side, causing him to cringe away and run a hand over his sore ribcage through his shirt.

“There’s no need to rub it in,” Zevran pouts. “What would Hamal think?”

“He would agree with me, and poke you twice as hard.”

“I somehow doubt that.”

“Well, if he has anything to say about it, I can bully him just as easily,” Mathuin says with a grin.

Zevran laughs. He is surprised, frankly, that Mathuin is joking with him in such a manner. As if they could be close, simply because they have a mutual friendship, and have shared a few conversations.

It seems a naïve assumption. The sort that makes people easy targets for assassination.

“Since I can tell we’ll both be waiting for them to come back,” Mathuin says suddenly, “Why don’t you join me today? I have lots to do. I could use a bit of help, and we could have that chat you promised. Kill two shems with one arrow, hm?”

“My friend,” Zevran says, “That is an expression I hadn’t heard before!”

Perhaps they are not so naïve. More like opportunistic—not to mention morbid. They grin sweetly at him, as if already assessing his words and reactions for their own interest.

“You are a bit intimidating,” Zevran tells them, smiling back. “I suppose I have no choice but to accept.”

Hearing that, they tap their fingers together, pleased. “I am _so_ glad to hear it!”

 

At first glance Mathuin’s schedule seems like it meanders, but Zevran soon realizes that it follows a complex and overarching pattern. Like a rhythm in the background of a song, dictating every move of the dance, depending on what needs to be done—and in a Dalish camp, something _always_ needs to be done.

First they check on all of Mathuin’s patients, and Zevran is an extra pair of hands, bringing bandages, medicine, and water. Then a hunting party returns from the forest; they carry no news of the Wardens, but they bring provisions, and, unexpectedly, two more missing halla. Since the halla need to be examined before rejoining the herd, Elora enlists Zevran’s aid again, happily sharing with Mathuin and the hunters how he had helped before. Zevran takes it graciously, but does not miss the unimpressed expressions on the hunters’ faces.

The unplanned chore takes longer than expected, which means other tasks are put off. To make up for it, Mathuin agrees to mend an aravel sail for the clan hahren.

It is the way of life for the Dalish, even here in Ferelden. Providing resources and shelter for everyone means that nothing gets ignored; if something needs to be done, it is taken care of right away, regardless of who has to drop everything to do it. Fortunately someone is always there to seamlessly step in and fill whatever role is needed. No wonder so many elves wind up converting to the Qun.

Zevran briefly wonders what role he would have filled, had he grown up among his mother’s people.

The aravels are of particular importance to the Dalish. Pulled by halla and driven by the wind, they need to be kept in proper shape. Any tears, holes, or fraying must be addressed quickly, before they worsen.

Mathuin fixes the damaged sail using no magic, only regular supplies, patches, and adhesives. With Zevran’s help, the work goes by quickly.

“You’ve done this before?” Mathuin asks, looking at him suspiciously.

“More or less,” Zevran says, keeping his eyes on his work, hoping to avoid an in-depth explanation.

“An aravel sail is unique, both in construction and functionality,” Mathuin says. “Your stitching is very Dalish.”

“Is it?” Zevran grins, pushing the needle through the fabric forcefully. It’s sturdy enough to require a sewing palm, which he hasn’t used in years. “What can I say? I’m a quick learner.”

“Sure.” Mathuin smiles. “You can fix aravel sails, and tend to halla, which you learned in the span of a week.”

“Cut this thread for me please?” Zevran hums, nonchalant.

Mathuin leans over and snips the thread, taking the opportunity to peer at him curiously.  The mended sail sits between them, all red and goldenrod, with the clan’s heraldry brightly emblazoned.

“You know, Zevran,” Mathuin says finally, “I get the sense that you are a private man, despite being easygoing with others. So it should please you to hear that Hamal does not tell me much about you.”

“Really?” Zevran asks. Then, unable to resist, and trying not to sound _too_ eager, he adds, “What _does_ he tell you?”

They tap at their chin, feigning thoughtfulness. “You enjoy poetry,” they say finally, looking back at him with a smile. “Poetry and swords, and for some reason Hamal was very keen on trading for some Dalish leather goods for you. I may have ruined that surprise… oops.” They laugh, and Zevran cannot help but smile as they continue.

“Also… you forgot to buy more coffee, and I don’t even know what that is. But he’s still holding onto that grudge, I’m afraid. What else…? You’re clever. Tactful when necessary, reckless by choice. And you can hold your own in a fight. He claims you’ve saved his life many times.”

“He saved me,” Zevran retorts. “I just hang around.”

“Sounds like more than that,” Mathuin says, wrapping their arms around their knees. “I’ve known him a long time, and I can tell. He’s been smiling a lot, for no reason.”

“Is that so,” Zevran hums, noncommittally. He holds the needle between his fingers, testing the sharp point against his skin. He thinks of the Warden’s smile.

Mathuin takes a deep breath. Abruptly, they smack one hand against the sail, looking at Zevran with newfound fervor.

“But he won’t tell me any juicy details!” they shout, dismayed. “Me, his friend of many years! It isn’t fair!”

The tension lifts instantly and Zevran leans back, laughing in surprise. Beside him, Mathuin  has shuffled close, their face full of indignation.

“Spill!” Mathuin says. “How did you two meet?”

“Jousting competition,” Zevran lies.

“Oh, you think you’re funny!” Mathuin says. “It must have been quite a story if you don’t want to tell…”

“I don’t have to say anything to you,” Zevran shoots back.

“I healed you once already,” Mathuin responds. “And I can break you just as easily.”

Zevran pauses, tilting his head to peek up at them. “Good luck explaining _that_ when he returns.”

“You are impossible,” they sigh. “Alright, alright, you need not tell me if you don’t want to. Here’s another question for you: May I see your map?”

“My… map? You want to see my map?” Zevran raises a brow, wondering if he heard correctly. He is too baffled to infuse the question with any innuendo. He kicks himself for missing the opportunity, but is far more interested in what Mathuin has to say for an explanation.

They seem serious. Dark eyes suddenly wide and exacting. “When they set off, Hamal told me something odd,” they say carefully. “He told me to find you, and ask to look at your map. There’s something important marked on it, yes?”

Oh. _Oh_.

Zevran sits up, reaching for his nearby pack.

Maps are an important commodity, for any traveler in Thedas, so of course he has his map with him. Crumpled and worn, with dirt and coffee stains. It had initially been intended to help him track the Wardens through this unfamiliar land. Now it details an entirely different adventure.

He unrolls the parchment, knowing exactly what Hamal must have meant when he asked Mathuin to look at it. A location, unceremoniously marked in ink. Zevran brushes his fingertips over the spot, and beckons Mathuin closer, showing them.

_Tamlen_ , the map reads.

For a long moment neither of them say anything.

It is Mathuin who finally moves away, shutting their eyes, sighing.

“He asked me to mark it down,” Zevran says, watching them. “In case something happens to him, he wants there to be at least one other person who knows where he is.”

“Now there’s two,” Mathuin says. For a moment Zevran thinks they might cry.

But they wind up just pulling themselves to their feet and brushing the dirt off. “Let’s get this sail back to the hahren. It is getting late.”

The quick autumn days have cut their time short, and the sun dips low on the horizon as they set the sail out to dry. The hahren is pleased with their work, and they close the day with the satisfaction of a job well done.

 

Eventually nightfall comes, and the Wardens have not yet returned.

It is not unheard of. They have gone on long outings before. More than likely they will return in a day or two, weary, but none worse for the wear. Zevran would like to be there when it happens, but he does not want to presume he is welcome among the clan after dark. He feels a bit out of place.

Mathuin pulls at a thread in their sleeve, staring at the fire.

“They are fine,” Zevran says helpfully. “It is not so unusual for the Wardens to set out for days at a time. They’ll be back before you know it.”

Mathuin shifts their weight from one foot, raising an eyebrow at him. “You’re worried too.”

“Not in the slightest. I have seen them fight.”

“And I have seen Hamal run into a tree and knock himself out while chasing fireflies.”

Zevran holds back a laugh, picturing it. Mathuin’s words sound frightfully within the realm of possibility. “Don’t worry,” he says. “The Warden is far more coordinated when chasing fireflies these days.”

He waits, giving Mathuin a moment to be polite and laugh at his joke. They do not.

“... He is not alone out there, Mathuin,” he reminds them. “And he is not defenseless either.”

“I know,” they agree grudgingly. “But, you wish you were with him too, don’t you, Zevran?”

Zevran does not answer. Despite the warmth of the campfire he is hyperaware of the chill around them, and of the darkness beyond the treeline. “The best thing to do now is try and get some rest.” He casts a sidelong glance at Mathuin. “No use in worrying about something you can’t do anything about. I suppose I should return to the Wardens’ camp soon…”

“You can stay if you like,” Mathuin tells him, and Zevran almost trips over his words to respond.

“Stay? Ah! _Well._ If you insist!”

“You could have just asked if you were that keen on it!” Mathuin smiles, and sets a hand on his shoulder. “Come on.”

They lead him away from the fire, and Zevran is reminded of that first night, slipping through the camp, looking for the Warden. This time, however, he is not trying to go unnoticed. He lingers behind Mathuin as they stop by one of the larger aravels, approaching a group that instantly shifts to make space for them.

Words are exchanged, too quiet for him to hear; but he can recognize the tone. Mathuin shrugs and thanks them anyway, and goes to see if someone elsewhere has a tent for Zevran to stay at.

The problem is, no one seems to.

Zevran shivers in the cold, willing himself to appear as if he cannot see what is happening.

Mathuin asks another clan member if they might have a tent to spare.

“Oh, _fine_ ,” the woman says in a very staged whisper. “Give me a few minutes to take my valuables out?”

“Nevermind,” Mathuin snaps, and hurries back to Zevran’s side, mouth tense.

Mathuin is beginning to grow frustrated. Zevran can see it in their eyes, and in the furrow of their brow. They both wander back to the main campfire, unsuccessful in finding him a place to stay, and it is here that they come across the crux of the matter, overheard in whispers from others in the clan.

_“How is it that Mahariel trusts them?”_ There is no derision in the question, but the others in the group murmur in agreement.

_“Traveling with humans and flat-ears and all that lot? Becoming a Gray Warden? No damn sense. You would think of all people, he would know better… considering… you know…”_

_“It’s a pity. You just can’t trust anyone so free with his associations. It goes to show what one is willing to tolerate…”_

Zevran feels his cheeks coloring. It is no matter to hear a few disparaging words about himself; he is rather used to such treatment. But the jabs at the Warden and his companions feel like a slap to the face.

Mathuin is apparently of the same mind. Before Zevran can respond, they bolt forward and shove the main speaker off his perch, sending his drink everywhere.

“Is this how you speak of those who render us aid when we need it most?” they ask, glowering at the group.

“Ah, Mathuin!” The man yelps, brushing droplets of wine off his shirt.

“You shame us all,” Mathuin seethes, before dashing forward to snatch the bottle from his hand. “I am taking this! If I hear any of you say such things again, I am breaking the bottle over your head! Let’s go, Zevran!”

He is swept away, not even glancing back at the campfire as Mathuin pulls him. He is focused only the sound of their footsteps and of the wine splashing around in the bottle as they go.

And his anger. He is focused on that too.

“Here,” Mathuin says eventually, shoving the wine into his hands.

Zevran takes the bottle and gives it a tentative sniff before setting it to his lips.

“I apologize.”

“No need,” Zevran says. “You stole alcohol for me. You’re good in my book.”

Mathuin grumbles something, muttering in angry elven as they go clear across the camp. “You can stay in my tent,” they say finally. “I’ll steal an extra bed roll.”

Their tent is just as he remembers it, roomy and cozy like last night, when Mathuin had healed him. Zevran takes in his surroundings and drinks quietly while Mathuin gathers up what they need. They do not seem to need any help. They are letting out their feelings as they work, slamming chests shut and throwing things aside in their gathering of bedding and supplies, so it seems a good idea to stay out of their way.

He thinks closely about what just happened, and concludes that he is glad for Mathuin’s quick intervention. If he had allowed himself to respond—no matter how civil—it would have been only the quickest way to alienate the clan.

Not that it would be any trouble to him. After all, he has heard it all before. He knows the steps, and the potential pitfalls, and the burn of being reviled by a community he once longed for. But if it wouldn’t be any trouble to him, it would definitely be trouble for Hamal. As much as Zevran would have liked to defend him, it would have been unwise to harm the Wardens’ standing with the clan. And it wouldn’t change the fact that it was Hamal’s own people who said those things about him.

_Of all people, he should know better._ Zevran repeats those words in his mind.

He is _angry_ on his behalf, and that has never happened. With all the slurs and insults humans have thrown at the Warden in the past, Zevran never once felt as he does now.

Maybe it is because, with humans, you have to grow a sort of armor. Something to stand against the words and the glares, even the unintended hurts; the slow damage over time; you can’t let them get to you easily, even as they wish you dead where you stand, and Zevran has known Hamal to fend off such attacks, with violence or wit, or even laughter.

But it is different when the hurt comes from your own.

There is no armor for that.

“You look angry,” Mathuin points out suddenly.

“I am,” Zevran says.

“I am truly sorry,” Mathuin repeats. They pause and look at him intently, the lines around their eyes making them look older and quite tired. “This is not the best the Dalish have to offer. It is not a very flattering side of us. But it _is_ a side of us nonetheless. And there are reasons, good reasons, for it. But I won’t pretend it is anything more or less than what it is. I’ll take full responsibility for that. I’m sorry.”

“Eh,” Zevran mutters, uninterested in what he views as a self-serving apology. He drinks more from the bottle, turning away from them and lapsing into silence. “What did they mean, Mathuin?” he asks after a moment.

“Hm?” They blink over at him, halfway done setting up his bed.

“He of all people.”

“Ah,” Mathuin hums. “That’s… personal, or at least it should be. Though that certainly didn’t stop them from dredging up old history for everyone to hear. Suffice to say: he has suffered greatly… because of the viciousness of humans, and… uhm.”

Zevran peers at the bottle, wishing Mathuin hadn’t spilled so much of it. “Do not bother censoring yourself, Mathuin,” he says casually.

“Humans and some of our more _misguided_ brethren.”

“Flat-ears.”

Mathuin shakes the blankets out. They dust their hands and straighten to look at him, the bed made.

“Flat-ears,” they repeat. “Humans and flat-ears killed Hamal’s father. And it is not for me to say more.”

Zevran drops into the bed Mathuin made for him, taking the information in.

Hamal did not speak of his parents often, but he had once told him that humans were to blame for his father’s death. He had offered little else in the way of information, both about his father’s murder, and his mother’s absence from his life. Zevran never asked.

Zevran remembers their conversation the day before. How impressed the Warden had seemed upon hearing about his unexpected Dalish background.

Then his mind drifts further back. To Antiva, to events that took place nearly 13 years prior.

“That’s fine,” Zevran says, his mind reaching a wall. “I do not wish to hear any more.”

Mathuin frowns, and fidgets. In the half shadow of the tent, Zevran can make out their silhouette, and just a little bit of their expression.

“Clan Sabrae remained open to our fellow elves, regardless of the circumstances of their birth,” they say finally. “Other Dalish, are not so welcoming, whether ignorant or overly cautious, I cannot say. But we are not all of one mind.”

“Nor are we.” The bottle is empty, and Zevran closes his eyes. “Thank you, Mathuin, for the place to stay.”

Awkward conversation over. Mathuin hesitates for a moment, but finally relents.

“Of course. Good night, _lethallin_.”

“Good night.”

 

It is late. He’s dreaming about Antiva, something warm and with the smell of the sea. Then Mathuin shakes him, and his hands dash for a dagger that isn’t at his side, where it usually is.

Zevran blinks, the red wall of his mind fading as his mind rights itself into wakefulness.

“What is it?” he asks, already alert.

“A feeling,” Mathuin whispers. “Or, more than that... something so intense, it woke me right up. I know it sounds insane but...”

“We’re going after them,” Zevran guesses.

Mathuin nods.

They do not need to tell him twice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This has unexpectedly become a mini-arc of Zevran and Mathuin adventuring together, and also having awkward and upsetting conversations about navigating Elven identity, seeking solidarity, and healing trauma. I have a vague idea of how I'm going to unpack all this... really...!
> 
> For now here is a link to where you can find some of my art, if you are curious about these goobers.
> 
> Mathuin - [1](http://ghostwise.tumblr.com/post/178618970274/mathuin-tilorsehn-soft-sweet-0-to-60-in-25-sec)  
> Hamal - [1](http://ghostwise.tumblr.com/post/180404201094/hamal-outfits-in-somewhat-chronological-order) [2](http://ghostwise.tumblr.com/post/177826601219/i-curse-the-road-i-curse-the-road-x-more-art-of)


End file.
